Sacrificial Lamb
by Natasha-Von-Lecter
Summary: COMPLETED! Here's the last chapter. Thank you to all the reviewers who kept me going writing this difficult fic. When I've got a new idea...you will all be the first to know! All the Best, Natasha
1. Chapter 1

Good Evening Everyone...  
  
I've been dormant for far too long. This an idea I've been kicking around for a long time know and one of coworkers guilted me into starting it...This first Chapter is G...it's going to end up NC-17 with Angst, violence, and sexual situations, so you've been warned. I'm intorducing a new character as a foil for Lecter and Clarice to battle over. I hope I've managed to hook your interest, and I hope I'll be able to get it wrestled down soon. As always, all comments and suggestions are very very welcome.   
  
All the Best,   
  
Natasha  
  
Sacrificial Lamb  
  
Chap 1  
  
************************************************************************   
  
You never take your eyes off me, but somehow cannot find the strength to meet my gaze. Your demeanor could almost be mistaken for submission, but the clenched fists in your lap speak of other possibilities. Sitting stock straight in that hideous folding chair, your courtesy is almost makes up for those cheap but well polished shoes. When a few choice barbs finally entice you to raise her eyes to mine, they gleam with the sweet-hot fire of unbridled ambition. You crave it so keenly. You want it, need it…If I were a free man, I'd channel that youthful eagerness into days and nights that would leave you breathless, and panting, and craving more. Oh little starling, I'd love to teach you what true longing is, slake my thirst at the fountain of your tears, drown us both in the deep, still waters of your soul.   
  
************************************************************************   
  
She is watching me through a veil of sooty lashes, three tables over, and to my left. Through dark glasses I stealthily observe her, hiding behind an architectural magazine she is pretending to read. There is an intelligence in her deep grey eyes, but worry strains the corners, deepening into faint lines. I can sense the desire in her to stare straight at me, but she holds herself in check, eyes downcast and hidden behind a curtain of dark brown hair. She is not unattractive, my recently acquired shadow. She has been following me for the last four days. There is a tension that holds her body taut, and a sharpness in her movements that is disconcerting. From this awkward carriage, I surmise that she has discovered my identity but is unsure how to proceed. She is faced with a daunting task, the outcome of which is likely to turn quite ugly. Her recalcitrance is mildly intriguing; I wonder why she has not attempted to contact the authorities.   
  
The bill arrives and, carefully blotting the stem and flat ware, I prepare to take my leave. The mater bears further scrutiny. I will double back on her and observe her over the course of the evening. I am fairly certain of the night's outcome, but I'd prefer to ascertain just how much information my petite Javert has acquired. I glance back at her before I rise, and I catch her off guard. Her eyes are wide, a look of panic spreading across her delicate features. With more speed than grace, she springs from her chair, hurling down a twenty-dollar bill, and bolting towards me. Standing now, I veer away from her, but her small, nervous voice trills in my ear.   
  
"Please! Wait…" She trails off.   
  
Turning back to face her, I can almost feel the anxious tremors of her hands. Her face is blanched of color, her slight frame nearly shaking with fear. And yet, slowly, with clear and practiced annunciation, she manages to speak once more.   
  
"Doctor…Sir…I would very much appreciate a moment of your time…"   
  
And quite, suddenly, the evening gets really interesting.   
  
************************************************************************   
  
Special Agent Clarice M. Starling, who behind her back is more often referred to as Mrs. Lecter, slumps over her basement desk in the annals of the Bureau. The cavernous room is plastered still with crime scene photographs and silky shadows. That she is able to sleep here, in a dungeon of her own making, is a testament to her nerves. Live with something long enough, and the fear starts to dull. Or more correctly, when you've been pinned against a fridge and a madman, somehow the photographs lose their power to shock and appall. They watch over her sleeping form like just so much moldy wallpaper.   
  
"Starling!"   
  
Her eyes flick open, and she raises her head from its case file pillow. Her superior, one of several who have presided over her in the last year of her disgrace, stands over her with a manila envelope. Dread wells up in her stomach like an oil slick.   
  
"Get up, Agent Starling. There's been a sighting." 


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing I notice about this quaking slip of a girl is her gloves. They are supple black kidskin. I imagine they feel butter soft, but I am left without a sensory confirmation because she has the good manners to refrain from laying hands on me. The air is crisp, but far too warm still for such accessories.   
  
"I'm sorry, Miss. I fear you've mistaken me for someone else"  
  
She tugs nervously at the ends of her long sleeves. The blouse is white silk, expensive, with a high, button closure neckline. She looks quite fetching, if a bit anachronistic among the tank-top and Capri tourist crowd.   
  
"We haven't met, but I know very well who you are, Doctor."  
  
She extends a shaking hand, and I curl my fingers around hers, raising it to my lips. The leather smells even better than it feels. Lovely.   
  
"Alexandra de Winter."  
  
I lower my hand, but don't relinquish her hand.   
  
"Alexandra. You're trembling."  
  
She attempts to snatch back her hand, more out of reflex than intent, but I tighten my grip and hold her fast. She has the acquired flinch of a dog that has been struck once to many times. I'm tempted to backhand her rosy cheek to see her reaction, but the crowd around us elicits my composure. Perhaps there will be time later.  
  
"Forgive me. I seem to have taken a chill."  
  
She speaks strangely, like the heroine from a Victorian novel. I suppose she thinks it passes for good breeding. To a casual observer, she might pass for a young woman of means. But even the fragrance of her fine leather gloves and silk blouse can't hide the commonality that permeates her pores. She's the dressed up daughter of janitor, posing for a family portrait in the sweaty photography studio of a small town department store. I give her glove a little tug, and glimpse the smooth, shiny reflection of an old scar circling her fragile wrist.  
  
"Funny, you don't feel cold."  
  
"Neither do you."  
  
I raise an eyebrow, and give her a twisted smile. Her shaking seems to subside a bit.  
  
"I was just about to indulge in a post prandial stroll Miss de Winter. Would you care to join me?"  
  
"Perhaps we could go somewhere more private."  
  
Bold girl. For all your trembling there's sterner stuff hiding behind those storm-gray eyes. It would be quite a thing to get to know you in private life.   
  
"I'm staying close to here. A rented cottage."  
  
I lean in closer to her, my voice barely audible as I whisper in her ear.   
  
"Of course, I can't take you there, and let you leave."  
  
And then oddly, she seems to grow entirely at ease, as a wave of confidence colors her features.   
  
"You mean you can't let me leave alive, Doctor."  
  
She slides her hand into the crook of my arm, and waits for my lead. Without further ado, I set off at a brisk pace. She heels very nicely. 


	3. Chapter 3

The cottage, really more of a small home, is nestled back in a shady, quiet glen. We don't exchange words on the journey there, but I take the opportunity to learn a little bit more about her. She has an almost unnoticeable limp to her right leg, most likely a break that didn't heal correctly. The unmistakable circle of a cigarette burn can just be glimpsed through the sheer sleeves of her blouse. There are years of systematic abuse written in the creases of her forehead. It will be interesting to see her nude. I'm certain several more scars must dapple the pale bluish skin that covers her brittle bones. I wonder at the sound they make when they snap. I wonder if she'd make any sound at all.   
  
I open the door for her and she steps inside. Her head swivels quickly, taking in the room, swiftly searching out any places she might hide. Old habits die hard. There is a sumptuous leather couch that cradles you in it's embrace. I reach for her purse and she relinquishes her grip, letting it fall into my hand.   
  
"The restroom is just down the hall and to the right. Why don't you take a moment to freshen up."   
  
"Thank you."   
  
She walks down the hallway without looking back. I can hear her heels click softly as she reaches the tiled floor, and closes the door behind her.   
  
Her purse is clean, tidy. There is a red lipstick, a small cheap coin purse, and a slim black wallet containing seventy-five dollars in cash. I slip her driver's license from it's plastic sheath and look at her photograph. There is no trace of a smile on the face of Bonnie Anne Haflinger, age 26, who resides in Easter Falls, Kansas. I replace her personal effects and zip the purse closed.   
  
I sink into the large leather armchair adjacent to the couch. The muffled sound of running water swishes from the bathroom door, and a few moments later, she emerges with gloves back in place. The scars on her wrists are by far the most painful for her. Because she was searching for a way put and was not strong enough to follow through. Because even in failure, she has failed. That must sting tremendously.   
  
She renters my presence with almost no sound, quiet as a housecat, and twice as canny. I gesture to the couch.   
  
"Sit. Please."   
  
She does as told, sitting rigid on the edge of the inviting sofa. The drapes are drawn, and warm, burgundy light diffuses through the room. I must say it calls to mind my office, a lifetime ago when I was still in private practice. Just the right atmosphere to get little Mary no-one-loves-me to wail out all her frustrations with the world and it's constant refusals to treat her like the princess she is. I have a sneaking suspicion that little Bonnie will prove to be more tight lipped than her previous counterparts.   
  
"Alexandra, you seem quite tense. May I offer you a glass of wine?"   
  
"No, Thank you."   
  
Mental note: her father was a drinker, or her mother. Or both. She equates alcohol with a lack of control, and self-control is of the utmost importance to her. It would be wise to refrain of the worship of Bacchus in her presence.   
  
"Alexandra really is a lovely name, Miss de Winter. How did you come by it?"   
  
"I was named after my grandmother. She used to read to me as a child, and take me sailing."   
  
Active fantasy life as an escape from reality. Elaborate scenarios feature prominently in her coping mechanism.   
  
None the less, Alexandra, I think I'd like to call you by a different name. I think I'd like to call you Bonnie."   
  
She stiffens here and her fingers clench into twin fists in her lap. A view rises along her temple.   
  
"Oh, I see. You're more comfortable with Alexandra. Why is that?"   
  
Still no verbal response. She has been taught that there is no right answer. Any answer will result in a blow.   
  
"What is Alexandra that Bonnie is not? What purpose does she serve for you? If you'd like me to help you, Bonnie, You're going to need to answer now."   
  
"I don't want to be her anymore."   
  
"Uh-huh. Because she is weak?"   
  
"Because I've outgrown her."   
  
"No, there you're wrong. You haven't outgrown yourself at all. You've just tried to hide behind a self you like better."   
  
"What does it matter what you call me?"   
  
There is a brassy note of annoyance in her tone. It will have to go.   
  
"It matters to you, because it matters to me, and it will have a bearing on how we spend the rest of our time together."   
  
"Do you think I sought you out to spend time with you?"   
  
"No, I believe you sought me because you tried to escape at least once yourself and failed miserably. Those scars on your wrists are so shallow I bet you hardly bled at all."   
  
There's a tinge of anger coloring her pretty face. I wonder if she knew it was hidden there, or if the feeling is a sudden surprise.   
  
"You're not afraid of dying here and now at my hands, and yet your pulse is racing at the mere suggestion that you lay aside the pretense and be who you really are. So let me make this easier for you. I'd like you to be Bonnie for awhile. That would be immensely pleasing to me. If, on other hand, you'd prefer to remain obstinate, I can strip your mind of any sort of memory of me and return you to the street where I found you. I'd prefer to let you keep that knowledge, Bonnie. I'd prefer to let you remain here with me, at least until I'm able to decide what it is I'd like to do with you. But please don't think for a moment that I'm not perfectly willing to cast you back out with a brand new set of pain and anguish to hold you close at night. If you think you've know pain and suffering before, poppet, believe me when I say that I could easily introduce you to agony far beyond anything your little mind can even conceive of now."   
  
Sad, angry tears are brimming in those dove-gray eyes. For a moment I think she might bolt for the door, and I finger the harpy in my pocket, but she sinks to the couch and curls her legs beneath her with a docile grace that is quite alluring. For the first time since I've made this strange acquaintance I can see myself thrusting atop her with ardor. I've paced my women few and far between, and always as means to an end, rather than the end themselves. High priced escorts mostly, who have almost as much interest in me as I have in them…although they always seemed to warm a bit when they received the substantial gratuities I am accustomed to doling out for good service in any vocation. From what I have gathered, most well-dressed men are egregiously poor tippers. But for the first time in many months, I can feel a hidden lustful stirring that begins with the woman instead of the biological underpinnings. I haven't touched a woman I've desired since that brief stolen kiss on the banks of the Chesapeake. I clamp down on the memories and divert my attention back to my living room. I've lost whole days reminiscing about that one, and I'm far from through with her, but now is not the time. I have more pressing matters before me. Bonnie finally leans back into the couch and looks up at me with resignation. Good girl. All good things to those who wait.   
  
"Thank you Bonnie. I appreciate your willingness to cooperate. Your helping me, helps you. Let me tell you what I'm willing to do. I'm willing to help you work through all the issues swimming in that pretty head of yours. I'm willing to give you new tools to dissect and process the forces that have been at work upon your psyche. And I'm willing to put you out of your misery. But I'm going to have some fun with you in return."   
  
She absorbs this placidly, and nods.   
  
"I'd like to see how you process sorts of pain. I'd like to watch you squirm under my heel. But I promise, at the end of the road, I'll put you down. Are we agreed?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
How fearless. How wonderful.   
  
"Then, Bonnie, first I'd like to hear a little bit about your childhood." 


	4. Chapter 4

************************************************************************  
  
Clarice Starling looks down at her watch, bracing for the odd feeling of emptiness that occurs at the exact moment the plane's wheels quit the tarmac and reach for the sky. She slumps back in her business class chair, ignoring the droning of the engines, the crying baby three rows up, the animated hands of the stewardess as she demonstrates the fine art of buckling a seatbelt.   
  
Once they're safely in the sky, the stewardess wheels a beverage cart down the aisle, dispensing coffee and beer, juice and wine. Clarice opts for a sensible cranberry juice, but then changes her mind. Digging out a five from her wallet, she exchanges it for a plastic cup of sub-par whiskey. Why not? She'll be in the air for a few hours yet. Besides, even when she lands what could she possibly need her "A" game for? This is the third sighting stateside in as many months. A nice looking older gentleman with a Jag and a taste for expensive wine, and off she goes to "investigate". She remembers when even the slightest hint of a sighting set her blood on fire and kept her awake and alert and pacing for a week on end. But one disappointment after another has greeted her. It's always just a well dressed college professor, a German business man, a average Joe who happens to spark the imagination of a bored, restless housewife. But it's never him. Never. And as Clarice sinks back into the lonely embrace of her chair, with the sour tang of whiskey on her lips, and a damp draft of stale air in her heart, she prepares herself for one more pointless week in her mundane, unremarkable life.   
  
************************************************************************  
  
When I ask her to remember a time before the abuse started, Bonnie tells me of a warm, red velvet room, where the sound of her mother's heartbeat lulled her to sleep. The pattern of abuse, startling in its scope and variance, commenced almost immediately after her birth, and continued, unflagging, until the death of her father, three years ago. Her mother, a pitiful broken woman had succeeded where Bonnie had failed, leaving her young daughter to find her lifeless body swinging from the rafters in their decrepit old farmhouse. On that day, her father took a hacksaw to the cross beam, assuring that little Bonnie would not be able to follow in her mother's footsteps and leave him without hot meals and fleshy entertainment. And on that day, Bonnie tried to slit both her wrists with a rusty razor but only ended up ruining her favorite dress with traces of the blood that pumped so resolutely through her veins.   
  
It is interesting to note that Bonnie carried for her father as he lay dying of cirrhosis on his grimy little bed in that crumbling house. She has never know the gentle touch of love or affection, but none the less finds love for those who have inflicted unimaginable pain and suffering onto her. And so, she seeks me out because in her mind she secretly equates pain with love, suffering with worth, and death with the only sort of peace she has known in her short life.   
  
In this pliable state, caught in a spell of liberating drugs, and the soothing sound of my voice, Bonnie spills countless well-guarded secrets at my feet. It floods out of her, in a raging torrent of pain and shame; In a few hours time she has painted me a tapestry of violence, incest, and verbal abuse that rivals the most tawdry tabloid papers. When I wake my slumbering Aurora, she will not remember this couch side confession, the unspeakably ugly things she has told me simply because I asked, the way I've run my fingers over her body, cataloguing each and every crack and fissure in her world-weary flesh. Later, when the work has begun, it will unnerve her to realize just how much I know about her. I know several ways to break her with very little effort. I know precisely and without question, the most painful, and the easiest way for her to die. I do not know yet which way I will choose.   
  
It is surprising, after listening to her vivid narrative that she is able to function to any degree in the outside world. Her odd clothing, her affected speaking, all tools to distance herself from anyone who crosses her path. Highly adaptable. Highly intelligent. Given a proper upbringing, I have no doubt that she would have excelled at any intellectual challenge, proved herself a willing pupil with an undying thirst for praise and accolades. But she has been sullied, derided into a shell so thick and yet so fragile that her only pursuit now is her escape and her demise. But not yet. At least for awhile, she is mine.   
  
I leave her there, sleeping, dreaming on the plush leather couch, well assured that she'll be out for at least a few more hours. Ample time for a trip into town. I haven't had a guest in ages. There's so much to do.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
When she wakes, she is cradled between the whisper soft layers of Egyptian cotton sheets. She is nude, of course, but the temperature is perfectly regulated for her comfort. The drugs wear off slowly, as the her blood quickens and courses through her veins. I sit in the shadowed corner, observing her reactions. She cannot see me yet, a particular touch of which I am quite proud. She rises from the bed, looking briefly down at her nude body, before moving on. Her own nakedness is much less important to her than assessing her immediate surroundings. Her gaze swings around the room, her wide eyes looking right through me. She sees the dressing table covered with a wide assortment of expensive, fragranced lotions and creams. I've bought far more than she'll need for her time with me, but perhaps I can use the remainder later, after she has departed, a sensual reminder of things to come. She approaches the large closet, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the full-length mirrored doors. Sliding one open, she is greeted by a modest assortment of ladies wear: three pairs of shoes, a long and mid-length skirt, several blouses and sweaters, and an evening gown in understated steel gray. There is also a good quality handbag, two multi-colored scarves, and the piece de resistance, a hooded black velvet cape. I had admired the silly thing in a consignment store weeks earlier, but had no occasion to purchase it. I took it as a sign that it was still there during my afternoon errands.   
  
My voice interrupts her explorations, and breaks the spell. She whirls around to face me.  
  
"I trust you slept well."  
  
She twitches, startled, but finds herself unable to cover her nudity without diving for the bed, or pulling a garment off it's hanger. She sighs and faces me resolutely. She manages to look almost stately, like Arsinoe in chains, regal even paraded naked before her captors.   
  
"Yes, Thank you. I remember talking with you. What were we talking about?"  
  
"Oh nothing very interesting. The clothing is acceptable, I hope?"  
  
"They're lovely, if a little but wasteful."  
  
A smile plays on the corners of my lips. Oh Arsinoe, did you think to leave so quickly? It would serve you well to remember who has captured who.  
  
"Cloaking a lovely woman in lovely clothes is never wasteful."  
  
Her jaw clenches. Not even a hint of a blush. She hadn't mentioned her father ever complimenting her body, but the look is unmistakable. He must have whispered dirty praises between the grunts. I make a mental note to refrain from verbally admiring her beauty.   
  
"I plan to take you out tomorrow evening."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"That doesn't concern you. For now, I'd like to perform a little experiment."  
  
She stands stock still in the middle of the room as I rise. Her poise is commendable. I don't think she even sees it coming as I thrust the pillowcase over her head and pull it taut around her neck. She thrashes for just a moment before I clench my forearm against her carotid artery and ease her back out of consciousness.   
  
************************************************************************  
  
In her waking moments there is a strange, disorienting feeling of floating. She struggles to get her footing, and finds purchase on the soft, plush carpeting. Her hands are tied smartly above her head, across the crossbeam of the high living room ceiling. She gives a little tug, once, twice, but the knots only tighten in on her wrists. I can see goose bumps rising across her skin as she realizes where she is tied. If I was to peer into her eyes I'm almost convinced I could she the reflection of her mother's dancing feet dangling in their deep gray ash. Instead I creep up behind her and breathe softly against the back of her neck.  
  
"Hello Bonnie."  
  
"Sir."  
  
It's a lovely word on her lips, a mixture of respect and disgust personified in one little syllable.   
  
"How are you feeling?"  
  
"My shoulders are sore."  
  
"Hmm. Yes, they are tied in a rather awkward position, aren't they."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Not to worry. I won't leave you like that forever."  
  
I stop to run my tongue along the downy curve of her neck. She stiffens. She tastes like tears and summer apricots.  
  
"Bonnie, I've devised some entertainment for this evening. A little game if you will. The rules are very simple. You decide when it begins, and I decide when it's finished. Do you understand?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Very good. Then are you ready to begin?"  
  
She pauses a moment, and breathes out a sigh. I can sense that she wants to look me in the eyes, gauge my motives and intent, but I prefer to remain behind her, out of site.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Excellent. Okey Dokey then. Here we go."  
  
There is a whispering rustle of fine gabardine wool as I unlatch my belt, drawing it lowly through the loops and into my hands. I can feel an itch starting to grow in the base of my spine. My hands tingle as they grasp the cool metal buckle. Stepping back, I school my thoughts for a moment, quiet my thinking, and then I send the belt out, lashing with a distinctive "Crack" across the white expanse of her back. An angry red welt springs up in the belt's wake. Bonnie flinches so subtly that I almost miss it. I pause to let the pain fade, then strike her again. And then I begin the deluge in earnest. Over and over, I strike her back, her thighs, coloring the tender flesh crimson in the low lights of the room. The room is silent except for the frenzied cracking of the belt resonating in the hollow chambers of my inner ear. Capillaries burst, bleeding under the skin, forming bleary-edged marks on her back and thighs. And finally, as the belt breaks the skin over her upper back, her lips part and a whimper escapes. The sound is intoxicating; it enflames my blood in an achingly familiar way. Slinging the belt over her head, I wrap it tightly around her neck and yank backwards. Her naked body is pressed against me, her eyes wild in profile as my iron grip tightens further. Her face turns a deep red and her hands fly up to the belt, digging frantically at the edges. It would be so easy…just a second more…more…I can feel the salivary gland at the base of my jaw come to life. I have to swallow to stem the tide. She gasps, sputters, coughs out the last of her breath…  
  
I drop the belt, and reflexively she sucks in a deep gulp of air. In the span of three heartbeats I have calmed my reaction. I come around to face her. Leaning down to reclaim my belt. There are limpid tears in her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks. She can barely whisper.  
  
"Why didn't you finish?"  
  
I lean in close and taste the rim of her pink, moist eyelid. I've never been more hungry.  
  
"I'm absolutely famished. Would you care to join me for dinner?"  
  
The dam breaks and sobs rack her battered, swinging body. I leave her hanging there while I decide what to cook. 


	5. Chapter 5

I select a large lamb roast from the back of the refrigerator. I'm absolutely ravenous; I feel like I haven't eaten in weeks. A few small slits in the skin, whole garlic cloves pressed into the meat, sprigs of fragrant rosemary tied on top with twine. I place it in the oven along with a pan of buttered new potatoes. With dinner seen to, I return to my trussed prize.   
  
I swiftly untie the knots, and she winces slightly as she brings her arms back down to her sides. The ache in her shoulders must be excruciating by now. Her eyes are slightly puffy, tinged blue underneath from the pressure of the blood trapped there by the belt. I can see the unmistakable shiny lines of tears dried on her cheeks.   
  
"How does your back feel?"  
  
"It stings between the shoulder blades. Did you break the skin?"  
  
"I did indeed. Would you like to have a bath before dinner? We still have an hour yet."  
  
She looks down at her wrists, rubbing out the pattern and soreness that the ropes leave behind.   
  
"Would you like that?"  
  
"Yes, very much."  
  
"A bath sounds good."  
  
"Excellent."  
  
I gesture with my hand, and she proceeds me down the hallway. Underneath the quilt of scars, her young body is delicious, all firm, taut skin, and fine long muscles. I can feel a stirring in the pit of my stomach, and I'm tempted to knock her to the floor and mount her against the carpet. Instead I follow her into the bathroom.   
  
A large claw foot tub resides in the center of the well appointed room. Placing both hands on her shoulders, I perch her upon its edge, and twist the hot and cold spigots. I toss a handful of Epsom salts into the water. They'll sting like mad, but they'll reduce the swelling a great deal. Tucking her hair up into a raised twist, I survey the damage. There is a thin, red gash in the skin, about three inches long. The bruises are faint, but plentiful. I lower my tongue to lick between her shoulder blades, dried blood moistening and breaking free, fresh blood leaking out onto my waiting taste buds. And quite suddenly a startling aroma wafts up to my nose. Musky, heady, arousal, emanating discretely from between her legs. I chuckle softly, amused. She shifts again, and another wave of scent slaps me hard across the cheek. I'd like to burry my face between her legs and lap her dry. No. This new development presents such interesting possibilities. No half measures, no hurried panting couplings. I'll have all of her before I'm through.   
  
The bath fills and I guide her into the warm water. She sinks down low, the water licking gently at the downy hair at the base of her skull, coaxing damp tendrils down to the depths. I take up a bar of sweet almond soap, and a sea sponge, and lean my wrists on the edge of the tub.   
  
"May I wash you?"  
  
There is a faint blush to her cheek as she silently nods. I roll back my sleeves. Dipping the sponge in the water, I apply a thin layer of lather, and set to work. I lean her forward and clean her back first, then her arms and upper chest. When I slide the sponge over her rounded breasts, the nipples tighten and peak. Lovely. I absentmindedly flick my thumb over one wrinkled nub and savor the trembling that ensues. I sponge clean her abdomen and belly, stopping short when my fingers brush the wiry thatch of her delta. Her lips have grown puffy, bloomed outward in the warm water, spread deliciously. I abandon the pretense of the sponge and it floats to the surface of the bath. I pause to roll my sleeve further up my arm. She shudders as my fingers return to the top of her mound, and she squirms anxiously under my feathery explorations. Her movements betray her. She'd take me right now, deep inside, and I'm half tempted to join her in Neptune's realm and fuck her against the smooth porcelain. What a pity that I have such a fine suit on. I'd hate to soil it, even for something so inviting. I wonder briefly whether or not she's ever had an orgasm. No matter. If she hasn't, she will no doubt learn well in the next few days. My thumb presses down on her hood, and her hips buck against me, sending water splashing onto the tiled floor. I withdraw my hand and roll my sleeves back down. Her cheeks positively glow with shame , and she won't meet my gaze.   
  
  
  
'You've made a mess, My Dear."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"I'm sure you are. Why don't you clean the floor while I go put the finishing touches on dinner."  
  
"Yes, Sir."  
  
"That's a good girl. And dress for dinner. The gray I think."  
  
"Yes, Sir."  
  
I hand her a towel, and turn to go, but pause when her fingertips brush mine. I grab that hand and kiss it. I give her my most dashing smile and wink. I can see the poor thing clench, her heart fluttering like a bird batting it's wings against it's gilded cage. Interesting.   
  
"Oh and Bonnie, If you're a good girl, I might even let you be Alexandra again for the rest of the night."  
  
And with that, I leave her on her hands and knees, scrubbing my floors.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
When the place touches down, Clarice stirs from her dream-addled sleep and rubs her eyes. She pops a breath mint into her mouth to disguise the scent of her earlier libations. Her nasal passages are dry and her lips feel puckered and tight. She isn't looking forward to the evening, but at least she'll get to stretch her legs.   
  
Claiming her baggage at the automated carriage, Clarice hails a cab and mumbles the address of a local motel 6. Years ago, they would have at least popped for a Best Western. Here's to hoping that the adulterous couple in the room next to her aren't too loud this time.   
  
Check-in goes smoothly, her key-cards handed to her by the tired young woman behind the counter, along with a map that pinpoints the exact location of her room in case she happens to get lost among so much stucco and lava rock. Once inside room 113 (Experience tells her that a lower floor room invariable is serenaded by the running feet of the children staying above her) Clarice opts for a shower. She strips naked, tossing her clothes on the desk in a messy pile. Tearing open the little paper wrapper of the limey soap, she turns the water up high and steps inside. She lathers the soap between her hands, creating a thin foam that she spreads over her body. She avoids touching her upper shoulder, instead letting the spigot spray against it. When she reaches to push back her hair, her fingers brush it anyways, and she pulls back as if burned. The scar never ceases to have that effect on her. The damage done, she returns her fingers to the smooth, barely raised flesh, and quietly admires his handiwork. Damn him, for the miniscule stitching. Damn him, for not letting the pigs finish her off. Damn him for every false lead that eats away at the sad semblance that's left of her life. Damn him, for making her want him, and making her hate herself. And just like the last time, and the last, and the last, Clarice Starling sinks to her knees and sobs against the grainy porcelain of a cheap hotel bathtub.  
  
************************************************************************   
  
The aroma of the rosemary and the lamb is divine. And even better, it's so rare that it weeps red tears as I slice it. I arrange a large portion on one plate, and carry it into the dinning room.   
  
For a moment, I remember another dining room, a year ago, with another dinner guest dressed in borrowed finery. I look right through Bonnie, harkening back to a night that went well, but not as well as I had hoped. I sigh and cast her from my mind. Dinner is getting cold.   
  
I reach out my hand and she takes it. The gray silk sheath whispers around her ankles, a delicate "shushing sound" perfuming the air with every movement she makes. Her cosmetic application is minimal; her features would benefit from a touch more shadow at the brow bone, a duskier sweep of rouge across her cheekbones. No matter. Sometimes less, really is more.   
  
I kiss her hand, and she tenses again. I hadn't expected her to find such an attraction for me so soon. Perhaps it's my fault for applying so much pain, so quickly. She has such an odd inner landscape; she correlates pain with such interesting emotions. A quick survey of her eyes yields a view into a raging conflict. She's excited for possibly the first time in years, but that sorrow, that weariness battles to the fore again. Make no mistake, her highest priority is still her demise, but if perhaps she can experience a twinge of erotic fulfillment along the way, so much the better.   
  
"Hungry?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Good. Do you like lamb?"  
  
"I don't know. I've never had it."  
  
"Excellent. I enjoy introducing you to knew sensations."  
  
I take her hand and guide her to the head of the table. I sink into my own seat and leave her standing there beside me. She looks bewildered, unsure. I smile.   
  
"You may sit at my feet."  
  
If the proposition is shocking to her, she masks it well. Mustering as much dignity as a woman in a ball gown on the floor can manage, she tucks her legs to the side and sits beside me. Her head levels out nicely with my hand. I turn my attention back to the succulent feast before me. When the first piece hits my tongue I shut out the world outside the delicate carpet of taste buds, and for a moment I hear a symphony of my own design echo through my ears. The evening is shaping up so much more nicely than expected. Who says there are no good surprises.   
  
I let one hand fall to the side of my chair and I stroke my fingers over her soft brown hair. I apply a little pressure to the side of her head, and she lays her cheek against my knee. Lovely. When my hunger has subsided a bit, I slice a small piece of the lamb, and grasp it between my thumb and index finger. Lowering the morsel, I offer it to her lips. She grasps it delicately in her teeth, and tugs it free. She chews and swallows. As an afterthought, her tongue emerges and she licks my fingers clean. The tentative touch of her tongue is maddening. I wonder what her tongue tastes like. I cut her off another dainty piece and feed it to her in the same fashion.   
  
"Do you like the lamb?"  
  
"The flavor is…strong."  
  
"It's an acquired taste." I inform her as I shove a piece a little roughly between her lips. "You'll get used to it."  
  
She accepts it, and returns her tongue to the task of cleaning my hand. I could get used to this.  
  
************************************************************************ 


	6. Chapter 6

Hello All! A special thanks to all my reviewers so far. Here's the latest Installment...I had to take a few days off from writing but I now have a clear idea of where the story is headed. I hope you enjoy, and I hope you will let me know.   
  
Warm Regards,   
  
Natasha  
  
Sacrificial Lamb  
  
Chapter 6  
  
After Dinner, after mints and coffee, which she laps from a saucer on the floor, After an afternoon that shaped up much more delightfully that I had ever expected, I feel like a night out.   
  
"Alexandra, why don't you clear."  
  
She rises with her saucer and gathers up my cup and plate. I watch her move until she disappears in a whisper of gray silk. Her carriage could be better. She could learn proper elocution, though I must say considering her background she has progressed impressively under her own tutelage. I'm half tempted to chisel out of her a glorious incarnation of womanhood, a fit consort, a Pygmalion plaything to while away lonely evenings. For a moment I allow my mind to calculate the infinite possibilities, the concept of an amusing creature to be tucked away until needed, the idea of an affectionate little wraith to torment or coddle as the mood strikes me. It would be easy enough, just a little reprogramming, a few weeks of real work, then the occasional little tweak to perfect her. I reign in my revere...the matter warrants further consideration, but now is not the time. Now, I dress for the evening entertainments.   
  
The spacious walk-in closet is lined with several well-appointed suits and dress shirts. I select a black tuxedo with clean, classic lines, and a crisp white shirt with French cuffs. Opening my leather valet, I rummage through my cuff link collection, and decide upon sterling silver with delicate gray marble inlay. They'll match her dress nicely. I wonder if she'll notice.   
  
I glance at myself in the mirror, and straighten my cuffs slightly before exiting the room and moving down the hall. In her room, I reach for her make-up bag and sit on the edge of her bed. Funny, I have come to think of it as her room, though she has yet to spend a night in it. The corners of my lips turn up in a faint smile. The supposition is very telling. Leaning back, I bark down the hallway.  
  
"Alexandra!"  
  
I can hear the clink of a dropped cup, the sound of it shattering as it falls from her startled hands. Will she pause to clean it up, or immediately hearken to the summons? I hear rapid footfalls, and am assured she has opted for the latter. There will be time later to punish her for her nonexistent crime. I do so love the sound of shattering china. It never quite looses its effect.   
  
She appears at the doorway, and stops at the threshold. I hook a finger towards her and beckon her closer. She stops at the foot of the bed, facing me.  
  
"Kneel."  
  
She does so, and I lean forward with the small silver clutch. Silver is her color scheme. The frosty elegance suits her. I unzip the bag, and draw out a few items.  
  
"I purchased this make-up for you, so that you would use it, and yet you've barely cracked the seals on half the items in this bag."  
  
She looks down, and stays silent. It is a humble and pretty reaction.   
  
"Close your eyes, and raise your chin."  
  
She does so. I'm momentarily tempted to bite through her lips, but instead I run the applicator over the gray cake of eye shadow, and apply it to her lower lids. There's a momentary flinch as the brush meets her eye. I choose to ignore it. She has already proven her bravery; I can forgive her one little flinch, surely. I lay the pigment upon her other eye, then draw darker gray eyeliner from its sheath.   
  
"Hold Still."  
  
I cup my fingers around her chin, and hold her firmly. I drag the pencil over her lash line, and coat the delicate fronds with one coat of black mascara. Lovely. Still cupping her chin, I study her closed eyes, then lean in to plant a soft kiss on her forehead. When I pull back from her, her eyes are wide open, liquid and bright, emotion swimming in their murky depths.   
  
"I don't recall telling you to open your eyes."  
  
She looks down in shame. I take her by the shoulders and bring her to her feet, her reflection gazing back at her from the mirror.   
  
"Now that is how a woman should look."  
  
I leave her there to contemplate her reflection, as I open the closet and retrieve the black velvet cape. Returning to her, I drape it across her shoulders and fasten it shut about her neck. Pulling the cowl over her head, I marvel at the richness of the fabric, the smooth, resilient grain. I feel the urge to crush it about her throat, feeling the fabric crumble as her larynx snaps under my fingers. I could relish those sensations for hours. It's a pity how fragile the human form is.   
  
I take her arm and guide her out of her room. The garage is inhabited by a sleek black jaguar. I open the passenger side for her and take her hand to help her in. Settling in behind the wheel, I smile, as I pull the jaguar out.   
  
"Where are we going?"  
  
They are the first words I've heard out of her since dinner.  
  
"You mustn't ask. It spoils the surprise."  
  
**********************************************  
  
Clarice Starling has dried her body and dried her tears, and dressed simply in a modest black cocktail dress. She has tied her hair back on the sides, brushed a hint of rouge over her cheekbones, and bronzed her lips and eyes with a soft copper glaze. The effect is warming, although she feels no warmth in her heart when faced with the prospect of the next few hours. Being a decoy does not suit her. It is the weakest form of hunting, based not on skill but on trickery and deceptions. Words like this turn her stomach.   
  
She slips on low, sensible pumps, and reaches for her handbag. The flash of her copper hair catches her eye in the mirror. She regards herself a moment, her eyes trailing over her face and body. She knows she is not unattractive. She knows she can pass for a woman of quality in the public's eye. And yet, whenever she attends one of these events, with the express purpose of tracking down a serial killer who is no doubt half way around the world in a paradise or hell of his own making, she can't help feeling like a rube lost in the shuffle. Shrugging off the feeling, she checks her purse for her ticket, and locks the hotel room behind her. 


	7. Chapter 7

We arrive fifteen minutes before curtain. The box, a curtained affair that affords an excellent view of the stage, is rented for the entire season; I enjoy the flexibility to attend when the mood strikes me.   
  
I pull out a chair for her, and hand her a tasseled program.   
  
"Carmen?"  
  
"Yes. No doubt you are already familiar with at least one melody if not the libretto. The Toreador song is quite famous. Do you know the story?"  
  
"No."  
  
Bizet's opera has recently become a favorite of mine, not so much for the music, but for the themes running through his masterwork. Bizet understood too well about love, I think.  
  
"It's the tale of a Spanish corporal, and his tragic love affair with an elusive gypsy. When he is ordered to imprison her, he finds himself torn between the masters he serves and the undeniable attraction he feels for the dark beauty. Ultimately, he learns that even chains of love can't keep Carmen from her freedom. His affection for her, however deep and sincere, can't change who she is, any more than she can rip the blinders from his eyes and free him from his perceived notions of duty. The only antidote for their ill-fated passion is to let it consume them in death."  
  
  
  
She looks across to the stage, rapt. It must be quite a change for her, to look out over a sea of well dressed couples engaged in hushed banter, to be a part of the social elite, for at least a few hours. I doubt she's ever seen a live performance in her life. I chuckle inwardly at her enthusiasm; It is such a rare commodity in this jaded world, and should be prized. The last time I saw such fresh-faced excitement was through several inches of Plexiglas, while a sweet song of nesting terns wafted to my ears.   
  
I follow her gaze out over the crowd, enjoying the subtle cacophony of instruments being tuned. The audience glitters in sequins and lace, men in dark suits and women draped in bright, shiny jewels. And then I feel my heart seize with delicious surprise as my eyes alight on a plain black cocktail dress decorated only by a swath of liquid copper. I can only see her from behind, but that unmistakable amber hue has been burned onto the backs of my eyelids as I've lain in the cool clutches of a half-sleep until dawn. She shifts in her chair, and turns slightly, offering a glimpse of profile. It is an agony to wrench my gaze from her, but I quickly scan the other opera patrons. They all have the demeanor of the rich out for a night on the town. She is not flanked by any other agents. Reflexively, I draw in a deep breath, scenting the air. I cannot smell her, of course. The musk of the crowd obscures any one person, even if she smells like honey and gun powder.   
  
I wonder where I was spotted and if she was officially dispatched to seek me, or if she is here of her own volition, perhaps using up her vacation time in hopes of bringing me back to the bureau as a much sought after souvenir. But something's not right. There's something amiss in her way she absentmindedly flips through her program, in the way she stares down at her shoes instead of scanning the crowd for a glimpse of her quarry. The full force of it hits me like the cool, hard kiss of steel around my wrist. She doesn't expect to see me any more than I expected to see her…but she is here nonetheless. I clamor through the scaffolding of her mind, peering in the dark corners, seeking out an insight that would explain the dejected aura that radiates from her. Perhaps she is weary. Perhaps the fruitless chase has taken its toll on my modern Artemis. I wonder, Clarice, when you hang up your bow at the end of the day, if you ever understand that the stag is just as tired of running from you as you are coming home empty-handed.   
  
The lights dim, and an expectant hush falls over the theater. Clarice bends to tuck her program under her chair. I lick my lips, which have suddenly become quite dry. At my side, Bonnie stairs with awe as the velvet current ascends towards the gilt ceiling. Beneath me, Clarice shines like a vision, resplendent even in the low lights.   
  
If the Mezzo-Soprano who portrays Carmen is impressive, I could not account for it. If Don Jose sings with anguished passion, his notes fall on my deaf ears. The whole world shifts, condenses, inhabited only by three. I clasp my hand over Bonnie's and clutch it against her knee. I'm sure she turned to look at me, but my field of vision is eclipsed by the back of Clarice's head. All I can see is the bright copper of her hair. All I can feel is the cool silver of Bonnie's captured hand. All I can hear is my blood pounding in my ears. Time grinds to a halt, but inexplicably the performers continue to sing and dance. And then the sound of applause brings me back to my own, the current falling to signal the end of the second act, and the beginning of intermission. The spells is broken as Clarice rises from her chair and walks down the Isle. Several men and women quit their seats and seek out the lobby as well. I give Bonnie an firm tug and she's on her feet. I catch a glimpse of her perplexed eyes in my peripheral vision, but I have no words for her as I hurry to the lobby.   
  
Copper flames dance across my eyes as I grasp Bonnie underneath her cape, my arm encircling her shoulders. And then, I'm so close that I CAN smell her, that intoxicating blend of soap and steel. Her back is to me, but she's only three feet away. When I finally find my voice, I'm close enough to touch her.   
  
"Good Evening, Clarice."  
  
The site of her face as she spins to face me will have its own room in my memory palace. Her lips part, and her eyes spark as she reaches back to the gun between her shoulder blades.   
  
A metallic click stops her dead in her tracks. Her eyes are lit with genuine surprise as I tilt the edge of Bonnie's cape to ever so slightly expose the tip of the Harpy poised at her jugular. I hiss into Bonnie's ear.  
  
"Have the decency to look frightened."  
  
And her eyes do widen, but it has nothing to do with the knife at her throat, and everything to do with our present company.  
  
"Dr. Lecter…"  
  
Her voice is a whisper. Patrons stream around us, babbling and sipping cocktails, none privy to our little unfolding drama."  
  
"Let the girl go."  
  
"I have a car outside, Clarice. Do you think you'd see fit to join me for some dessert?"  
  
Her eyes dart nervously from mine, and find Bonnie's.  
  
"Don't worry, Honey. Everything's going to be alright."  
  
Just for show I give the Harpy a little tug, the tip acquiring a crimson gloss.  
  
"I believe I asked you a question, Clarice."  
  
"Let her go, Please."  
  
"Better. But the answer's still no."  
  
Panic is flushing her cheek, as her eyes flit from mine, to Bonnie's, to the tip of the knife. The sound of Bonnie's voice breaks in on our duet.  
  
"Please, just do what he says!"  
  
I suppress a laugh, and grasp Bonnie more fiercely against my chest. My lips caress her earlobe, and I whisper sotto voce to her.  
  
"Very nice."  
  
I think I will forgive her for the broken teacup. I can see the reluctant acquiescence in Clarice's eyes, and I furl the Harpy under my sleeve. I wrap one hand about Bonnie's waist and offer the other to Clarice. It is overwhelming to touch her again.   
  
"Shall we?"  
  
They fall into step on either side of me, as the lobby lights flash. I regret the fact that Bonnie will miss the end of her first and last opera. Her sacrifice will be rewarded.   
  
I spot the Jaguar, but think better of it. Reaching the curb, I hail a cab, and usher my two companions inside. Clarice might try to incapacitate me if I was driving, but she won't risk the life of both Bonnie and an innocent cab driver. Her predictability is comforting as we make the short trip home.   
  
Seated between them, I lean in close to Clarice, and lay my hand across her naked knee. I can feel the gooseflesh spring up under my fingers.   
  
"You look lovely."  
  
"Go to hell."  
  
"Come, come my dear. We mustn't quarrel in front of our guest."  
  
And with that, I place a feather-light kiss at the corner of her lips. Clarice's legs part ever so slightly. Intoxicating. Bonnie goes ever so slightly rigid to my left. Fascinating. And then, I lean back against the seat and grasp both of their hands in mine. Up until this morning, my life had grown unbearably dull. Oh when it rains, it pours. Oh how it pours. 


	8. Chapter 8

When the cab pulls up to my rented cottage, I grasp Bonnie firmly around the waist and help her out. Keeping my lovely human shield conveniently over my vital organs, I extend my hand to Clarice. Her fingers are surprisingly warm as she places her hand in mine. They are softer than I remember, but a cursory flick of my fingertip over her palm reveals two calluses. In this context, the toughened skin is unbearably erotic. She shivers, perhaps from the crisp evening wind as she exists the cab, and perhaps from other influences entirely. For a moment, I'm caught, unable to tear my eyes from her imperfectly perfect face. Bonnie shifts, and I detect an air of impatience in the gesture. Hidden by the fall of her ebony cape, I dig my fingers into her hip and she settles. I gesture for Clarice to precede me and she reluctantly turns her back on us.   
  
I pay the cab driver and leisurely follow Clarice up the walk. I savor the sweet image of her back as she walks before me. I have had such little time to admire her from behind. She has always approached me with eyes forward, and shoulders braced. I briefly recall the twist of her shoulders as she was forcibly escorted from my presence in Memphis. I file away the new images with their predecessors.   
  
She waits for us at the door, and begins to turn to face me, but I quickly move in behind her, pressing myself chest against her back. The urge to crush her against the door, and tear her dress to shreds is overwhelming. Instead I deftly reach for her zipper and tug it down to her waist. The expanse of her back is a pristine white that almost brings tears to my eyes. A simple black bra fastens in back, and over it, a slim holster. The automatic is cradled between the angel's wings of her shoulder blades. I can feel her tense. The feeling of vulnerability must carry such a sting. She has the means to level me strapped to her back, and yet her hands are deftly tied by her concern for the innocent to my left.   
  
"Bonnie, if you'd be so kind."   
  
Bonnie obediently slips the pistol from its holster, and lays it in my hand. I dislodge the chamber and fling the bullets far and wide over the yard. It will be impossible to find them hidden in the dewy folds of the night-dark grass. Tucking the gun into my jacket, I place my hand at the small of her back, letting it set there a beat longer than necessary before drawing the zipper closed.   
  
Turning the key in the lock, I usher my companions inside. With Bonnie on one arm, and my hand manacled around Clarice's wrist, I escort the ladies to the living room. I back her up to the sumptuous leather couch.   
  
"Sit, Please. Would you care for some coffee, Clarice? Dessert perhaps?"   
  
"No thank you."   
  
She has gained more control of herself. Her courtesy is curt, but I appreciate the effort. She looks from me to Bonnie, her eyes strained.   
  
"Everything's going to be alright, honey."   
  
Bonnie makes no effort to ally Clarice's concern, and I think I detect a look of disdain in her downcast eyes. No doubt she knows very well the identity of her would be protector. Perhaps she believes the rumors of the tabloid press. Perhaps she just senses the tension in the air between us. Poor Bonnie. In her last humble hours she wanted so badly to be the center of attention. This new development must be heartbreaking for her. Why should her death be any different than her life? At least, the end will be familiar. 


	9. Chapter 9

At the last possible second, her hands fly up to her face, deflecting the steaming coffee from her eyes. A twitch of anger flares up in me, as I see the pink flesh of her hands stinging with the burn. Turning to Bonnie, she reflects her anger back at me. I cuff her smartly across the cheek. She raises her hand to her lips, and spits out a tooth.   
  
"One more little stunt like that and I'll keep you chained to the radiator in the basement until the smell reminds me where I left you."  
  
Clarice is starring at me in horror. I would have thought that so many years of study would have taught her what to expect. Perhaps her eternal optimist can be silenced after all.   
  
"You may go to your room now, Bonnie, and reflect on your actions here tonight. I'll be in to discuss some matters with you later. Right now, Clarice and I have some catching up to do."  
  
She turns and pads quietly across the carpet.  
  
"Bonnie!"  
  
She turns, and levels a steely-eyed glance at the woman who has addressed her.   
  
"Bonnie, I know you're frightened and I know you're…"  
  
With a chilled indifference that would be the envy of any blueblood, Bonnie turns and exits without hearing her out. Clarice trails off into silence.   
  
Taking her by the elbow, I help Clarice to her feet, and walk her to the kitchen. She stumbles once in the thick carpet, but I keep her on her feet. In the kitchen, I turn on a stream of cool water, and gently guide her sore hands under the faucet. She stairs dumbly down at them. I place a finger under her chin, and turn her face towards mine, examining the delicate skin for any trace of a burn. There is a small speckling of red above her right eyebrow.   
  
"The coffee seems to have marked you here…"  
  
I stroke the burn softly with the side of my hand. She stairs at me mournfully, transfixed, the water bubbling softy over her hands and fleeing down the stain-less steel sink. I slide my thumb over her bottom lip, coaxing her mouth open. I think I would have had her down on the floor by now, writhing under me like a bitch in heat, if not for Bonnie. What an odd intersection. What a strange course of events has unfolded. As I stand there, nursing her wounds, stroking her lip, drinking deep of the tears that threaten to plummet from her eyes at any moment, I wonder if I wish things had been different. It is an exercise in futility. The clock never turns back, just as the pieces of the teacup in the dustbin never manage to knit back together. If one lamb stops screaming it is only because another takes its place.   
  
"Why weren't you looking for me at the opera, Clarice?"  
  
"Because when I look, you're never there."  
  
Her answer is interesting. I shut off the faucet and produce a clean kitchen towel. I cradle her hands in the soft cotton and pat them dry.   
  
"Why is she here, Dr. Lecter?"  
  
"Little Bonnie is a classic example of Freud's death wish, albeit more conscious than most. She wants to die, Clarice."  
  
"She's a confused girl."  
  
"She's a mature woman who has taken very elaborate means to secure her final wishes."  
  
"You can't just…Dr. Lecter, you're no mercy killer!"  
  
As her agitation grows her voice rises, breaks.  
  
"No, Clarice, nor have I ever claimed to be."  
  
"Then why…why…"  
  
"Isn't it obvious? A willing victim, Clarice. Can you comprehend the delicious possibilities that she presents?"  
  
She shudders in revulsion.  
  
"I can take my time, unhurried, languid. I can learn infinite new ways to make a body snap and crack. Have you ever heard a finger smashed in a garlic press before, Clarice? Have you ever wondered what the soft flesh of an inner arm smells like pressed against an electric range?"   
  
Her shudders grow more pronounced and she jerks away from me. She vomits into the sink.   
  
Her eyes snap up as she feels the syringe sink into the crook of her elbow. I had secreted it in my tuxedo in case Bonnie had become unmanageable during our night on the town. Panic grips her features as she digs her fingers into my sleeve, slides down to her knees before me. I sink down to protect her head as she falls. Lying on the floor, consciously quickly fleeting from her eyes, the last words she manages to whisper reach my ears.  
  
"Stop…if you…"  
  
Sliding my hands under her neck and knees, I lift her off the ground. The feeling of déjà vu is intense. No amount of stitches will be able to sew her up this time. This time she won't even have a scar to remind her that the past was real. 


	10. Chapter 10

when I open the door to her room, Bonnie is kneeling beside her bed, the silver gown pooling about her legs like liquid mercury. The scars on her wrists are pink from where she has worried them. Her eyes are rimmed with red.   
  
She doesn't look at me as I settle on the bed beside her, and wrap my hands sharply in her hair. I tug her head onto my knee.  
  
"That was a careless stunt you pulled in there, Bonnie. It's not in your best interests to raise my ire, teacup."  
  
"Where is she?"  
  
"Sleeping"  
  
She gives me a skeptical glance.  
  
"I gave her an injection of Morphine. I wanted some time with you, unimpeded."  
  
It is evident by the slant of her angry and defeated eyes that she does not believe my sentiments to be genuine.  
  
"You're jealous, aren't you?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Her candor is refreshing.  
  
"Why is that?"  
  
"I don't know. I think it's the way you look at her."  
  
"I see. And by the converse, I you wish I looked at you like that."  
  
"Yes."  
  
Again, completely honest.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
Her lack of pretense diffuses my anger like a silk curtain hovering over a shaft of light.   
  
"I look at her like that, Bonnie, because she is a unique and beautiful creature, who stirs my passion merely by walking into a room."  
  
I can feel something twist inside her and crumble. She seems to shrink in on herself. She hugs her knees.  
  
"But you are just as unique, Bonnie, and no less desireable. Your memory will continue to haunt me long after you have departed."  
  
The tears do come now, but they are less bitter I think. There's a cathartic glow to her cheeks that seems to betoken the fact that she'd suffer through anything – even death – if only someone would see her as a thing of value.   
  
"You're so alike you know. And different as night and day."  
  
I pet her hair softly, and let her cry. When she finally looks up at me, there is a gratitude radiating from her that I haven't seen since Mischa wrapped her chubby hand around my outstretched finger. Bonnie kneels up, setting her palms down on my knees, and raising her face to eye level. And then she presses her lips to mine.   
  
I haven't ever been truly kissed by someone who knows who I am. I had never expected to be. And yet, here she is, supple, young and soft, her full lips pursing over my own. There is a surprising gentleness to it. How she could learn to be gentle without ever being offered a tender caress is a mystery. How she can handle so much pain herself, and yet still retain a place in her heart for affection is as enigmatic as the feeling that wells up inside my chest. The urge to destroy can keep time beside the urge to protect. My arm aches along the pathways of old breaks. I faintly bite at her lip, she responds by sliding her hands up my shirt, reaching for the buttons. She begins to unfasten them, the sides of her hands brushing my chest. I capture her wrists, and still them. She looks me dead in the eye, unafraid. She can see my arousal, but she can also sense my reserve.   
  
"Can we…"  
  
I ponder the question. Can we? The thought of a bit of rough sex before I dispatched her had occurred to me. But this? This softness and gentle understanding? Her willingness is so unexpected. When I raise my hand to my face, I can still smell the faint traces of Clarice. She is sleeping on the other side of the thin wall.   
  
"I'm afraid I must go and check on our guest. I want to make sure she is sleeping comfortably."  
  
She sinks back on her heels, the liquid silver pooling out around her. Her eyes are downcast once more, the gratitude recessing into the dark black cavern of her pupil.   
  
"I'll be back for you in a little while, Bonnie I'd suggest you use this time to gather your thoughts and put yourself in order."  
  
"Yes, Sir."  
  
She looks as if she's about to start crying again. I wonder if she feels rejected.   
  
"And Bonnie, don't think too harshly of Clarice. For all her confused and bumbling modes of morality, she wants exactly the same thing you do. She wants to be put out of her misery."  
  
I turn to go, but her curiously empty voice stops me.  
  
"I know why I feel jealous, now. It's not the way you looked at her at all. It's the way you stopped looking at me the moment she walked into the room."  
  
I have no response to comfort her. I leave the room in a cold sweat. 


	11. Chapter 11

If the sight of Bonnie groveling at my feet has a peer, then it is most assuredly the vision of Clarice tied to headboard of my bed. Still in the clutches of a shallow sleep, tendrils of black cording knotted about her wrists, she shifts slightly as I approach the bed. I had decided to allow her to remain clothed in her simple black frock. The end of the night will take its toll on her in a myriad of ways; I have no need to add her violated dignity to their number. At least not yet. There is a vague stirring in the pit of my stomach. And the word returns, swimming up in my mind. Violation. I'd love to strip her down and make her scream my name until she's hoarse.   
  
I sit down on the bed beside her, and her eyes flutter with attempted exertion. I contemplate the injection of a stimulant, but decide against it. She'll be awake soon enough, and pumping sufficient adrenaline through her veins. In the ear-splitting silence of the room, I gaze down on her, tied to my bed, and it hits me like a blow to the ribs. I could keep her here for as long as I liked. I could take her with me around the globe, to a thousand different sunsets on a thousand different beaches. I could quite effectively keep her leashed to my whims for the rest of her life. I could make her a willing prisoner, caught up in the tangled web of her own moral matrix. And it would be so easy. All I would have to do is send Bonnie back out into the cold, cruel night. Poor confused Clarice. I can almost hear her voice plying at my ear.   
  
"Let her go, Dr. Lecter. Let her go and I'll stay with you."   
  
I could let her play beauty to my beast. Accept her noble sacrifice and hold her to her word with the gilded threads of her own courage and incorruptibility. In time, I think, I could even make her love me. And all I'd have to do is destroy the person she is trying to save. Condemn Bonnie to a slow, agonizing death at the hands of a thousand cruel strangers who would never finish her off for fear of losing their favored plaything. And the tragic irony would be that Clarice, in her darkest hours, when she grieved for the quiet respectability of her former life, would still find comfort in the fact that Bonnie still walked the earth because of her sacrifice. Bonnie, once more, would suffer for the wants and desires of those around her. If nothing else, she would at least know what to expect.   
  
A gentle stirring at my side brings my attention back into sharp focus. Her eyes struggle open and find my gaze. She tugs softly at her wrists, but she knows without throwing her weight against them that they will hold. After all, I tied them.  
  
"Good Evening, Clarice. Welcome back to the land of the living."   
  
She seems lost for a moment, teetering on the edge of a nightmare and reality, searching for the truth of the last few hours.   
  
"Where is she?"   
  
"In her room. Quite untouched for now, I assure you. How do your hands feel?"  
  
She tugs again, and makes fists with her slender fingers.   
  
"Numb."  
  
I run my fingertips over the top of her hand.   
  
"They're warm still. You will let me know if they start to turn cold."  
  
I look down on my Appalachian martyr, consciousness now firmly rooted in her bright, worried eyes. I could keep her like this forever. And all I'd have to do is destroy another human being in the guise of mercy.   
  
"I'd like to see her, please. Talk to her."  
  
She doesn't flinch as my fingertips brush the burn on the arch of her eyebrow.  
  
"I don't think that's a good Idea, Special Agent Starling. Bonnie's aim may have improved by now."  
  
"Why does she hate me?"  
  
"Because you're threatening to take away the thing she wants more than anything else in the world."  
  
There are tears in her eyes now, angry, threatening tears. I find that I am glad her hands are effectively immobilized.   
  
"She can't want that. Nobody wants that."  
  
"How arrogant of you, my dear, to presume to know what the whole world wants and needs."  
  
"What did you do to her?"  
  
"You're becoming repetitive, Clarice. I've merely extracted her case history by poking around the dark corners of her mind. I've lifted up a few dusty old sheets and peeked in a few moldy cupboards, but I've left everything exactly as I've found it."  
  
"You've taken a vulnerable young girl and used her own sickness against her for your pleasure. It's monstrous."  
  
"I've been called a monster Clarice, many times. But never by you."  
  
Tears are streaming down her cheeks now, her rope bound hands clenched in angry fists. But there's more to it than just righteous anger. Swirling in those eyes I can see a whirlpool of fear and jealousy, anguish and resolve. She's almost there.  
  
"Dr. Lecter, I of all people know that despite every atrocity you've committed you're a brilliant psychologist with an incredible power over the human mind. Use that power now. Use it to help her, and I'll…"  
  
"And you'll what?"  
  
"Be merciful Doctor, be merciful and I'll take her place."  
  
I clasp my hand over her fist, it's skin waxy with cold. I work the knotting looser, allowing some blood to rush in and feed the hungry capillaries.   
  
She tugs hard at her bindings, and I lay my splayed hand over her face.  
  
"Shhh…if you struggle, you'll only end up further mired in your ropes."  
  
I bend to her neck and run my tongue across her jugular. Goosebumps spring up in its wake. She tastes like sweat and fear. Delicious. Her shudder pleases me to no end. I can taste the faint rivulets of tears that have slid down her neck and pooled on her collarbone. I could stay like this for hours, feasting on just three inches of my caged starling. But I have other obligations for this evening.  
  
"Your proposal is interesting, and I'll think on it at length Clarice."  
  
That angry spark is back in her eyes. The vengeful look paints her features in the visage of a scorned woman. How delightful.  
  
"What more do you want from me?"  
  
And I can't resist. I shift my weight atop her, pinning her even further to the bed, holding her down with my weight, delighting in the shivers that this new development provokes in my captive. I capture her earlobe in m teeth and bite down until I taste weeping. I whisper coarsely in her ear.  
  
"I want to know the taste of our commingled sweat, rippling in the pulsing hollow of your throat. I want to capture the glorious perfume of your musk dampening fine Egyptian cotton. I want to hear what my name sounds like when you climax."  
  
She is shaking, in fear and longing, a potent cocktail of derision and desire.  
  
"But none of those things, Clarice, as precious as they would be, is worth my freedom. A leopard can't change his spots, Clarice, even if he can learn to love a lamb."  
  
She won't look at me as I recede from her, but I can smell such a conflicted array of scents. It's overpowering. It's almost too much.  
  
I leave her there, tied to my bed. I must confess, it is hard to leave.  
  
"And Clarice, I promise you I will be merciful tonight, but not, perhaps, in the ways you're expecting." 


	12. Chapter 12

If I lived a thousand years, I still don't think I'd have quite enough time to truly understand the inner working of the female mind. In one room, my lovely Clarice lies bound, holding her body hostage for the life of a woman she hardly knows, who just a few hours earlier tried to blind her with steaming hot coffee. In the other, Bonnie aggressively defends her right to a death she can only believe will be a merciful escape from the sham of a life she has endured up until this very strange intersection in time and space. My Persephone, who will consent to descend into the melancholy shade of Hades for the sake of a single lamb. And Psyche, the suicide urge suffocating her despairing heart, even as she feels a glimmer of what can only, inexplicably, be described as love. The archetypes swirl around me with an odd resonance that has haunted men and women for all time.   
  
"Hello, Bonnie"  
  
She startles when she hears my voice, but does not turn to greet me. She is naked now, kneeling demurely, with her eyes downcast to the plush carpet.   
  
I remain just inside the doorway, and fold my arms across my chest. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and admire the fine cut of the suit. Splendid.  
  
"She wants to take your place, you know. She offered herself to me tonight in exchange for your life."  
  
At this, her shoulders tense, her arms held rigid. She finds her voice, and it is surprisingly steady.  
  
"What have you decided to do?"  
  
"Now, that really is the question, isn't it, Bonnie? Lie down on your stomach."  
  
She does so, her face turned to the side, away from me. The welts on her back have faded somewhat, but they are still quite erotic in the damage they suggest. I briefly wonder what the crack of her small vertebrae would sound like. I crouch beside her and splay my hand over her back, pressing her firmly into the carpet. She can still breath around the thick carpet fibers, but not without some difficulty.  
  
"You are the interesting product of your prior conditioning, Bonnie. Do you believe I am a man of my word?"  
  
She shudders under my hand and I savor the subtle sensation. Her voice loses some of her implacable reserve when she speaks in halting tones.  
  
"I hope so."  
  
"Yes. But hope is such a cruel emotion isn't, teacup? I bet you hoped that worthless cow who bore you would find the strength to take her vulnerable little girl and run. And then again, you hoped that Daddy might seek out the affections of another and leave your poor, aching flesh alone long enough to heal. Hope has been decidedly cruel to you, hasn't it, Bonnie?"  
  
I can see her glistening tears soaking into the carpet. I make a mental note of their location, in case I should like revisit some of those infused fibers, later. The sob that hitches in her breast twitches under my hand. It feels so good.   
  
I flip her over roughly, and mount her, clamping my thighs tight against her legs, closing them. Her tear-bright eyes meet mine for an instant, then look away. I lower my head to her neck and bite her hard on the neck. The weeping tissue makes me salivate. She doesn't even flinch. I rasp into her ear.   
  
"You've read the tabloids, haven't you Bonnie? You must know that I lust for her. So many years now."  
  
She's shaking in earnest beneath me. I've felt that shudder before, but it's never been instigated by the fear of life before.  
  
"And you, I've known you how long, Bonnie? All of ten hours? A decade of desire, pinned against few brief hours of passing fancy? Tell me, which do you think will prevail?"  
  
She is positively shivering now, her nose red and her eyes liquid. She manages to choke out a plea amidst her crying.  
  
"You promised."  
  
"I did, didn't I? But who's to say you didn't come to me, specifically for this purpose? Perhaps you're the final bit of leverage I need to break her? Do you know how long I've ached to fuck her, Bonnie? Do you really think I'd give that up just to satisfy the whims of some presumptuous upstart with a little taste and an interesting form of pathology?"  
  
My words must wound her deeply. But I'm enjoying myself. Savagery can be so heady, even when the only blood spilled is hearts blood.   
  
"Such a pity you didn't find me sooner, my dear. Aren't the tricks time plays on us so wickedly perverse."  
  
Her eyes gloss over, and I can sense her receding from me, hiding. If I looked deep enough into her eyes I think I could almost see her on the prow of a sailboat, traversing still waters with her nonexistent grandmother. Not yet, pretty. I want you back. I Grab a hold of her left index finger and wrench it from it's socket. Her focus comes rushing back as she screams in pain.  
  
"Don't you go away from me, pet. I haven't decided to let you go."  
  
I clasp my hand tightly over her mouth and nose, cutting off her breath with crushing pressure.   
  
"You'll stay, or go as I see fit. Do you understand?"  
  
She nods frantically, as insignificant capillaries burst in her eyes. I allow her to breath, and she gulps in the air with ardor, in spite of herself. I bury my hand in her hair and yank her roughly to her feet.   
  
Stumbling, trying to keep her feet under her, I drag her from the room and down the hall. At the end of the hallway, I tear open the bathroom door and throw her roughly from me. She trips over her own feet and goes down hard on the tiles. When she looks up at me, there is a viciousness in her gaze that sets my blood to boiling.   
  
"You promised me."  
  
It is spat at me like the most vitriolic of venom. I feel the urge to slap her hard across the face, hearing the sweet sound her neck snapping with the force.  
  
"You will wait for me here."  
  
I slam the door hard enough to rattle the hinges, and lock her inside. I regain my composure as I walk down the hall. 


	13. Chapter 13

When I return for one final check on Clarice, I find her diligently working the knot on her wrists back and forth over the bed post. Charming.  
  
"Here, let me help you."  
  
The distinctive click of my opening Harpy cuts through the air as I shear the ropes off her body.  
  
"I would never have forgiven myself if I'd damaged the sensitive nerve pathways in your slender wrists."  
  
She sits up on the bed and slinks back from me. I can see her eyeing my hands for any trace of red.  
  
"I would have washed up afterwards, my dear, if indeed there had been any bloodshed."  
  
She pales, taking on a ghostly white pallor.   
  
"Is she…"  
  
"Anxiously waiting my return."  
  
She seems to believe me. This exchange is becoming tedious. I decide to catch her off-guard.  
  
"How many men have you welcomed into your bed, Clarice?"  
  
The question hangs in the air between us. If she is offended or embarased, she gives me no indication, although it is clear that she is hesitant to hand over this personal information. I wonder if it's the influence of the Lutheran home, or born of her uneasiness at the dark undercurrents that have always run between us in electric sparks of erotic fission. Perhaps, it's a mixture of both.  
  
"Three."  
  
"Practically a virgin."  
  
She does color nicely here. She is ashamed of her inexperience. She shouldn't be. Such a capable and driven woman is bound to intimidate all but the most confident of suitors. When she speaks her voice is tinged with retaliation.  
  
"And just how many women have you been with, Doctor."  
  
"I have entered into a business arraingement with many women, Clarice, renting their time and efforts for several hours, then sending them on their way with a generous tip. It has all the romance of a tax audit, but I do find it nessecary and theraputic. But, I believe we were discussing your sexual history and not mine. Of these three men, how many of them were before our first encounter down in the dungeon."  
  
"Two."  
  
"I see. Well, you certainly haven't taken a lover since I regained my freedom, so that leaves a brief window from our first meeting, and our last in Memphis. When did you meet this brief paramour?"  
  
"I don't see how any of this is relevant, Doctor Lecter."  
  
"You're offering yourself to me, Clarice, in exchange for the life of my young charge. Don't you think I deserve to make an informed decision?"  
  
She is angry, and humiliated, but her instinct to protect the lambs is overriding. She restrains herself with admirable control.  
  
"It was right after Memphis."  
  
"What was his name?"  
  
"I don't remember."  
  
"Where did you meet him?"  
  
"At a bar. Ardelia took me out to celebrate Catherine's safe return."  
  
"What attracted you to him, Clarice?"  
  
"Nothing really. He hit on me, and I took him home."  
  
"Isn't that a bit out of character for you?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Yes. But, even still, you took a man you barely knew home to your bed. So I'll ask you again, Clarice. Why?"  
  
I move a bit closer to her and she stiffens. Seeing her reaction, I ease back a fraction of an inch.  
  
"You had touched me. My skin felt like it was on fire for weeks."  
  
I grasp her hand in mine, finding by memory the soft, tender skin just above her first knuckle. I stroke that little hidden divet of sensuality that I've ravished countless times as my mind drifted off into a fitful sleep.  
  
"You weren't the only one who felt that spark, Clarice."  
  
I loosen my hold on her hand, and she pulls away.  
  
"So we've established the number of your conquests at three. The question remaining then, Clarice, is how many men have you welcomed into your heart?"  
  
"I never welcomed you, Doctor."  
  
She looks away from me, tears brimming in her eyes. When she finds her voice again it comes out almost a whisper.  
  
"You slipped inside me when I wasn't looking."  
  
It is a coward's admission, but it is an admission none-the-less.  
  
"If I have become a part of your inner landscape, Clarice, it is because you wished me to be so."  
  
It is ugly to her, that she might actually want my attentions. To actively desire me would be to desecrate the temple of her purity. How much more convienent for her if she lays that putrity on the altar of her sacrifice. If she gives in for the sake of the lamb, no one could ever fault her. No one except me.  
  
"Have you had time to consider, Clarice, what your life with me would be like?"  
  
"Some."  
  
"I would love to see Florence through a new set of eyes. I know I could teach you some things about your body that, I dare say no man has bothered to show you. I think you'd discover you had an aptitude for languages, a taste for certain types of art and music. I could spend the rest of my life teaching you new things, and learning the complicated web of who you are. I can only see one problem."  
  
"What is that, Doctor?"  
  
"All your life you'd always remember that the way I enticed you to remain by my side was to tether you there. If I have to clip your wings to keep you, Clarice, you're not worth having."  
  
She looks at me then with an abundance of pain and regret painted on her lovely face. It has to end soon. The gentleman in me gives way just a bit and I pull her towards me, and hold her fast. Lowering my head, I part her lips and taste the warm, succulence of her mouth. I feel the silken flesh of her tongue barely skim mine, and I feel her captured hands digging subtly into my suit. I rip my mouth from hers, startling her, and force to arm's length. My voice issues forth harsh, and gutteral.  
  
"Clear your mind, Clarice. Forget about Bonnie and forget about the F.B.I. Forget who you were and forget my case file."  
  
She closes her eyes, shaken. I place my finger tips over her reposing eyelids.   
  
"Forget whatever moral debt you feel you owe the world…"  
  
I place my hand over her heart. It's knocking violently against her ribcage.  
  
"And remember the fire that consumed you the first time we touched."  
  
There are tears again, tracing tired patterns down her cheeks.   
  
"Remember it Clarice, because memories are all you'll have left after tonight."  
  
She doesn't even wince as the needle goes in. I don't bother to catch her as she crumples to the floor. 


	14. Chapter 14

The last hours of the evening lay mapped out in my mind, a clear path heading inexorably to the dawn. Time relentlessly ticks away like it always does, refusing to turn back on itself with all the stubborn tenacity of a ravening beast. Even so, there are matters to attend to.   
  
Bonnie's incessant pounding on the bathroom door has stopped, replaced by the gentle rush of water through plumbing. Perhaps she is trying to drown herself. After several necessary phone calls, and a cursory sweep of my rented abode, I return to Bonnie's empty room. I gather her purse and the various sundries I had purchased for her, stowing them in the corner of the room. I fish out her driver's license, and stow it in my trouser pocket. Standing in the middle of the room I take a deep breath, letting her faint aroma permeate my nasal passages. I record the earthy perfume for posterity, secreting it in a Canopic jar in the antechamber of my memory palace. The cape, that lovely trifling frivolity, I spread out on the bed like a duvet.   
  
The water rushing through the pipes ceases its flow. Silence reigns once more, peppered only by the quiet rhythm of my now steady breath. I can smell the lingering scents of my two lovely captives. That unique, commingled perfume is disconcerting. And for a brief moment, they cease to exists as separate entities, instead forming a constellation in the skies above my memory palace. Clarice-Bonnie-Mischa…it's as I've always suspected. Some of our stars are the same, and always will be. I draw the curtains in my mind closed. My stargazing will have to wait until the dawn.  
  
When I unlock the bathroom door, the air is still heavy with moisture. Bonnie reclines limply against the white porcelain of the bathtub, her hair captured in a neat twist at the nape of her shapely neck. She is quite elegant in her icy nudity. The look she gives me could shatter glass. I wonder briefly, if there is aristocratic blood mingling with the commonness in her veins. Pity, that blueblood is just an expression. It always looks the same, no matter whose artery it spills from.   
  
I crouch beside the bathtub and trail my fingers through the water.  
  
"You've let the water cool. You'll catch a chill."  
  
"What the fuck do you care?"  
  
"Such Eloquence."  
  
I can taste her delicious anger in the humid air. I remove my cufflinks, and roll back my sleeves.   
  
"What have you been ruminating on since our last little chat, Bonnie?"  
  
"You're not what I expected."  
  
"Ah. People rarely are, Bonnie. But for the sake of conversation, what did you expect?"  
  
She looks at me know, with a cultivated air of detachment. That façade will be stripped from her soon enough. I allow her to pretend.  
  
"I thought you'd take me back to your house and kill me."  
  
My amusement bubbles forth in laughter.  
  
"Is something funny?"  
  
"I suppose not. But it just serves to reiterate the point, Bonnie, that our lives become the most interesting when people don't do exactly as we expect. For example, when Clarice offered her body and companionship to me in exchange for your life, she thoroughly expected me to comply with her plea. I'd say that when she wakes up in the morning, her life is going to get very, very interesting."  
  
I can see a chink in Bonnie's reserve now, as my words sink in and penetrate the melancholy she wears like a shroud.   
  
"I want very much to have her with me, Bonnie. But only on the terms that I decide. "  
  
She winces here…funny how it still hurts her.  
  
"And failing that, the course of the evening has convinced me that I would enjoy keeping you, at least for awhile. But I have terms with you as well, Bonnie. I believe I struck a bargain with you, and you have fulfilled your part of the arraignment with admirable courage."  
  
I take her hand and help her to her feet. Water cascades off her in rivulets, snaking across her curves, and disappearing into the floor mats. She raises her arms as I press a thick bath sheet against her flesh, drying her. When I reach her torso, I raise my eyes to here. Tears stream unbidden from her eyes. There is an odd mix of apprehension and gratitude.   
  
"You've waited so long for it, Bonnie. Now that you're looking death in the face do you find the fear you thought you'd left behind in your childhood home?"  
  
For the first time this night, her voice cracks. It's already started.  
  
"Yes. I am afraid."  
  
Her naked honesty remains until the last.  
  
"Good. Then I'd say it's about time we begin."  
  
I offer her my arm, and she takes it. We proceed down the hallway and enter her room. The velvet cape drapes the bed, and I inch her backwards to it.   
  
"Lie down. On your back."  
  
She obeys, shutting her eyes tight as she reclines. Her hands lay stiffly at her sides. The tension radiates off her in waves. Her eyes remain shut as I settle on the bed beside her, leaning on my side, and smoothing my hand over her creased brow. I lower my voice and whisper to her.  
  
"Relax."  
  
She makes a conscious effort to release the rigidity in her muscles. She doesn't entirely succeed.   
  
"Are you able to open your eyes, Bonnie?"  
  
Her voice sounds uncharacteristically small.  
  
"Please don't make me."  
  
"Alright. Not just yet, anyhow."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
It's not just a polite turn of phrase. She means it with every fiber of her being.   
  
"Take a deep breath in through your nose, hold for a count of three, and then release through your mouth."  
  
"Yes, Sir."  
  
"Continue breathing like that."  
  
I watch her for several moments. The tightness in the voluntary long muscle fibers abates somewhat. Her eyes flutter softly but do not open. I stroke the top of her head, and she leans in to my touch.  
  
"What do you feel?"  
  
"Apprehension"  
  
"You could still change your mind, you know. I'd be willing to allow you your freedom."  
  
"You mean you'd allow my life. It's not the same thing."  
  
"No, Bonnie. You're absolutely right. It's not the same thing."  
  
I grasp her by the shoulders and pull her into my arms. She gasps at first, startled by the rush of motion. We are facing each other, me with eyes wide open, her with eyes shut tight. I wrap my arms tightly around her, and after a pause she lays her head against my chest. I softly kiss the arch of her brow bone, caress her face with my fingers. She shudders once, and I recognize it as the beginning of a sob. There is so much pain and anger locked inside her. The lock on the door where she keeps her rage must be almost as strong as mine.   
  
I hold her like that for a quarter of an hour, memorizing each fascinating and intrinsic texture: The down on her cheek, the press of her breasts against my chest, the top of her head as it nestles below my chin. I feel an unexpected affection swelling inside the cavern of my heart. I lift her chin, and part her lips with my own. The kiss is long, and full, and when it is over I know that it is time. I look down at her, and her eyes are finally open once more. When she speaks to me, a note of surprise colors her tone.   
  
"I love you."  
  
I extract my arms from the embrace and smooth her onto her back once more.   
  
"I know."  
  
A question flickers across her eyes, but I refrain from answering her. When I say nothing more, she looks down and closes her eyes once more.   
  
"Are you ready now, Bonnie?"  
  
There is a long pause, and she lets out a soft sigh before answering.  
  
"Yes, Sir."  
  
"Very good. Turn your arms over, so your palms are facing up."  
  
She exposes the white flesh of her arms to me, a delicate pattern of lacey blue veins decorating her pale skin. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and sit next to her, my side brushing hers. I delve into my pocket and retrieve the cold steel blade. I hold it in my hands, and breath onto it, warming the smooth metal. She flinches softly at the click my Harpy makes as it is unfurled.   
  
It would be quicker to slice her carotid or femoral artery. It would be cleaner to snap her neck. But truly there's only one way that will do. I've know it from the moment I saw those anachronistic kidskin gloves.   
  
"Bonnie, give me your left wrist."  
  
I slide my fingertips over her wrist. I raise it to my lips and kiss the smooth pink wrinkle of scar tissue. Tears start to stream out from her closed lids.   
  
"Give me you right hand."  
  
She lays her hand it mine and I clasp it firmly. I press the handle of the open Harpy into her palm. Her eyes snap open, a look of panic rising in her features.   
  
"I…I…Can't…Please…"  
  
I wrap my fingers tighter around her palm, squeezing her fingers in on the handle of the knife.   
  
"You will, Bonnie. I'll help you."  
  
She stares at me for a long time, her hands caught in mine, the light glinting of the serrated blade balanced between us. It feels like an eternity. It seems that time stops. For a moment I wonder if the teacup is going to fuse back together. I feel her tears fall on my fingertips. I feel her pulse thundering through her captured wrist.   
  
With painfully slow movements, Bonnie inches the blade towards the wrist I hold out for her. She touches the point to a cerulean vein and drags it along the skin. The cut is shallow and only weeps superficially. Bonnie sobs.  
  
"Again."  
  
"I can't"  
  
"Again!"  
  
It comes out harsher than I intended. I stroke her cheek with the back of my hand, and whisper to her.   
  
"Again."  
  
With difficulty, she slides the tip back across her wrist. It won't be deep enough this time either. I wrap my hand over hers, gripping the knife through her fingers, and press down. This time, the blade finds it's mark. She cries out softly as it enters her artery. A small jet of red spurts up, and bubbles down across her arm. I tighten my grip on her hand and drawn the knife firmly across. It catches on the rubbery vein. I give it a little tug, and it's free. I stare down at the blood fleeing from her body. Just a few minutes now. Ten perhaps, even fifteen. But no more. I expect to see her looking down at the wound, but when I look up, she is gazing at me. I'm locked there by her eyes.   
  
"I'm cold."  
  
"Yes, you're in shock. Would you like a blanket?"  
  
The color drains from her face rapidly, her blood staining the velvet below her.   
  
"Would you please…"  
  
I don't wait for her to finish, instead gathering her up in my arms and holding her close. The tuxedo will have to be burned.   
  
"Thank you."  
  
"You're most welcome, Bonnie."  
  
I stroke her hair out of her eyes.  
  
"Remarkable girl."  
  
She begins to shudder and gasp. I can see the fear in her eyes, and I lay her back against the bed. I hold her face gently between my hands. She whimpers."  
  
"Shhhh…Bonnie, don't fight. I want you to remember the sailboat."  
  
Her eyes begin to flutter shut. It's almost over. Almost.  
  
"Remember the way the water felt when you trailed your fingers over the side. Remember the smell of the salt air. Remember that wonderful feeling…that feeling of being so free. Free."  
  
The gasping stops, and the shuddering. She stills beneath the caress of my voice. And as her eyes shut for the final time, the corners of her lips turn up in a hint of a smile.   
  
I don't know how long I stay like that, but when I finally pull myself away the blood on my hands has dried. I inhale the metallic tang from my fingertips, running my tongue along the grooves of my fingerprints. The taste is pungent and sharp. I retch.   
  
I have never killed a person for whom I had felt a genuine affection for. It is not an experience I wish to revisit at present. Perhaps, late at night, as sleep begins to claim me, I may slip into this room and while away the night with her. But not yet. It is still too fresh, to raw. Perhaps it just needs to age like a fine wine. Or perhaps it will only sour like the vinegar whose sharpness mars the tongue and offends the palate. Only time tells. Only time.   
  
I hoist Bonnie's body in my arms and carry her down the hall. There's still so much to be done before dawn. 


	15. Chapter 15: Completed

Clarice Starling will never be quite certain if the fever dreams that hover just outside her field of vision were the shadows of actual events, or the deluded ramblings of a morphine drip. She will half-remember a weight settling onto the bed beside her, and a hand that runs gently through her hair. She can almost swear that as her eyes struggle to open, she can see a single maroon tear floating in midair before it splashes across the planes of her face. If the kiss she thinks she may have dreamed actually occurred, it is most definitely not a kiss hello, but rather an achingly painful kiss goodbye. As accustomed as she is to his voice in her head, the words she can barely remember seemed to emanate from outside her mind. "A perceived sacrifice, Clarice, is only a desire we are too afraid to give voice to." And whether or not he truly whispered these words into her ear, or she culled them from the obsidian depths of her murky unconscious, Clarice Starling will know them as the unflinching truth, come morning.   
  
When the last of the sedative has fled her system, and consciousness laboriously fights to the surface, Clarice surveys the aftermath of their last encounter. The soft rays of early dawn fan out over the Berber carpet, heralding the start of a new day. There is a sourness in her mouth, and as she rises she finds a carafe of water and a lead crystal glass on her night stand. She pours herself some water, swishes it in her mouth, then spits it back into the glass, but the medicinal tang in the back of her throat doesn't abate. She surveys her wrinkled cocktail dress, and glances about the room. Silent.   
  
She waits like that, sitting astride her bed, for nearly half an hour. Paralysis wraps it's icy fingers about her muscles, rooting her feet down to the floor. As every minute ticks by she holds her breath, hoping to hear a creak on the floorboards, see a shadow darken the doorway. Silent. She is alone.  
  
When she finally finds her feet, it is in a shuffling, stumbling gate so entirely out of her character that she would like to blame the after effects of the morphine. She skirts the living room first, eyes flickering across the furniture and object d'art that populate the claustrophobic space. The kitchen next, as immaculate and impersonal as the last. She knows she is stalling, but continues to avoid the room at the end of the hall. When she runs out of rooms to check, she sighs and heads for Bonnie's room.   
  
There is a part of her who can almost believe that he'll be seated there, waiting for her. But in her heart she knows he was gone before she woke. Afterwards, she will not be able to say whether or not that knowledge caused the tears to spring to her eyes before she saw Bonnie, or if the sight of the pale body enshrouded in velvet was the catalyst. She digs the heels of her hands violently into her eyes pressing down hard to staunch the tears, to silence the screams. And though she'll never admit it to another soul, there is a small, hidden part of her that envies the dead girl with a passion so fierce it scares and repulses her.   
  
With painful effort she inches closer to the bed, looking at Bonnie out of the corner of her eye. She sinks to her side, kneeling on the floor. She has been meticulously cleaned, dressed in her silver gown, her face painted with subtle tones of gray and peach. Her injured wrist has been sewn neatly shut with black thread. Clarice can feel her shoulder itch at the familiarity of the stitching. In the open palm, a letter bearing her name in copperplate awaits her. She grasps the linen paper violently from the Bonnie's hand, sending bits of red sealing wax flying as she tears it open. That insidious voice springs to life in her mind with such force that she looks over her shoulder half expecting to see him there.   
  
Dear Clarice,   
  
Please forgive my early departure. As you must already presume, the states do not seem to be particularly auspicious for me at present and I felt the need to secure a flight without delay. I contemplated waking you before I left, but I suspect that sleep will not come easily to you in the coming weeks, and thought to give you one last night, uninterrupted.   
  
Bonnie has been prepared for burial, and a suitable grave has been dug in the back yard. I would have liked to inter her myself, but I knew you'd only exhume the grave to ensure that I had not absconded with her to some foreign locale. I would be most grateful if you would see that she is laid to rest. I have taken her identification with me as a precaution. If it concerns you, know that our Bonnie is an orphan like yourself. No one will come looking for her, and no heartsick mother waits up at night for news of her missing little girl. Free yourself from any guilt that such supposed imaginings may have created in your breast.  
  
You are no doubt troubled as you read this, and you do indeed have my sympathy, Clarice. I would venture however, that right now sympathy is the least of your desires. Do you blame yourself for Bonnie's death? Will you take up this new sense of culpability as your own, alongside lambs and colleagues who are no more? Truly, Clarice, it is not your burden to bear, though your moral matrix may tell you otherwise. What stings worse, Clarice, Bonnie's passing, or the fact that your perceived sacrifice was not sufficient to "save" her? You very well may see my refusal to accept your offer as a personal rejection of yourself. Please understand, Clarice, that I have not rejected you, but merely your terms. The distinction may not seem clear to you at present, my dear. Reflect on it, and you may grow in your understanding. I cannot imagine a more charmed life, Clarice, than one in which you flank my side, but the terms, as always, would be mine. Not particularly fair, perhaps, but very, very true. You have always known how to reach me. If you ever decide to abandon the burdens you heap upon yourself so unfairly, I would be most happy to help you learn to soar again, little starling. Or, if you'd prefer, I could always put you out of your misery. It is not something I would enjoy, if you can believe that, but it is something we both now know, I am capable of.   
  
I remain yours, always,  
  
Hannibal Lecter, M.D.  
  
When Clarice Starling find the strength to stand, she also finds that the tears have dried up and ceased to stain her cheeks. Looking down at Bonnie she is not surprised to see the peaceful smile that graces her lips. She can understand, now, what it is to wish for death. And yet, she still has work to do. Rest, if she will ever be granted such again, will have to come later.  
  
Gathering Bonnie up in her arms, Clarice carries her out to the yard. Laying her in the ground, she folds her hands neatly at her breast, and whispers an uncomfortably Lutheran prayer. Reaching behind her own neck, Clarice unfastens her necklace, add-a-bead and tiger's eye, and tosses it into the ground. It seems a trifle, and yet, it is all she has to leave. Taking up the shovel, she sinks it into the dirt and begins to steadily cover the last traces of the girl. Hard work is no stranger to Clarice Starling, and though she finds some measure of comfort in the familiar aches of muscle exertion, she also finds a new groundswell of tears. They only abate when she smoothes the last of the dirt over Bonnie's hidden grave. It feels right to her, somehow, to kneel in the dirt and silently beg for forgiveness.   
  
When it is finished, when she has returned inside the house and caught a glimpse of her dirt-streaked face in the mirror, when the absence of life in the house hits her like a wall of bricks at high speed, Clarice Starling crumples to her knees under the shower's hot water and sobs until her ribs ache. The dirt, and tears flee down the drain, and when she finds the last of her hope has fled with them, she turns off the water and crawls out of the tub. After drying herself and dressing, after making a pot of steaming black coffee and spiking it with a bottle of Jack's she finds stowed in a cabinet, Clarice Starling leaves the house and walks to the nearest payphone. And when she calls in to the bureau she has to bite the sides of her cheeks to keep from breaking into tears. She'll be back at work tomorrow. The stakeout was a total failure. Just another false sighting. When she looks for him, He's never there. 


End file.
